The Birth

so sleepy.
caresses with gloves of plush velvet.
and so, let me slide…
I fly over brooding lands of Origin.
my mast head turns to visions magnetic.

pieces of The Art, half seen.
rumors of stories ancient.
obscured, they tantalize.
they collect within me until I must pause to consider each.

as a bird, I alight, upon a branch of rusting iron.
and there do i give hot birth to the leaden egg.
marbled in its weight, it burns,
swirling, showing on its shell a hint of bright beginnings.

i wait only for the Word,
but confounded am i by the echoes of witless conversations.
theatrical in their urgency.
demented and demonic.
the Great Lie.

there is the sound of one hand clapping.

the falsity bursts into crackling embers, then full dark.

There is a bang.


Image credit:


Timeless Classics


This heart hurts
These limbs are weak
This spirit is
Too sad to speak

It likely seems
They’ll take away
The phone she works on
Every day

Or so much money
There cannot
Be further bought

For that month’s
Remainder, oh
This is an all but
Mortal blow

Through daily slog
Domestic strife
Through poverty
Through painful life

She seeks but order
To create
Pain for all

But she will never
Gain back weight
If all that she can
Say she ate

Is plain potato,
Noodle, bean
With not a pat
Of butter e’en

Her nervous palate
To appease
Still less for hope
A bit of cheese

Perhaps it better
Is this way —
Phone’s getting heavy


The poet/editor of this website is physically disabled, and lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level. Contributions may be made at:

View original post

Day and night, night and day

In the early morning,
I held you when you cried.
In time, you began the building of your world.
You knew important things,
like the bear went over the mountain,
and also that the Camptown racetrack was five miles long.

At bedtime, native drums could be heard
as I thumped out their rhythm on your back and sang a song that said
that down in the jungle you would live in a tent
and you wouldn’t pay money, you wouldn’t pay rent,
you wouldn’t even know the time. But you wouldn’t mind.
Every night you asked for more, and got mad if I shortened the verse.

I reached out with the blue of my covered fingers, and you took the proffered hand.

In the broad noon of the day, you had built well. Worldly connections.
True and false friends.
I saw you less, as you ranged further and further, looking for something that you thought was beyond your doorstep.

But, you were the first to appear if I was in peril.

In this evening, now, you see the faltering.
As in a certain prophecy, it seems you have found a purpose.
I reach out once more, with weakened hand.
The blue shows through.

Take me to that place where there is no time, but I won’t mind.


According to the Cambridge English Dictionary, an epiphany is a moment when you suddenly feel that you understand, or suddenly become conscious of, something that is very important to you.

At eleven

When you took the back way home from school

Through the snow and ice

To avoid the pursuing bullies.

You got wet and cold, but you saw that your tough sledding had outsmarted them

And you became cunning in finding other ways,

For you knew their insect intellect

And saw that it took their four to drum up courage

To hurt your puny body.

At sixteen

When you took a stand, for something that seems silly now

Only a movie (with the most beautiful girl you had ever seen).

Many miles away it was, in the dead of winter,

But you insisted that your parents let you go.  Three buses by yourself.

When you returned, it was not the movie you remembered,

But the newfound independence.

You knew now what hard work and a little daring would bring you.

At twenty one

Your first car that was not borrowed or shared:

A beat up MG midget with a soft top,

Not much bigger than a go kart with a body on it.

Speeding down a winding road in the late fall,

Your bomber jacket on, and your shoulder length hair whipped by the wind.

Pelting leaves hitting your face.

The most atmospheric and exhilarated you have ever felt in your life.


photo credit



To the winos and the connoisseurs

But you must already know these things, no?

Then have a little titter at the expense of this neophyte initiate.

When I drink, it’s usually a beer or two (rarely three).

Upon a time, it was good rye whisky-

neat, please, and room temperature.

On Christmas past, someone brought a one and a half litre bottle

of Black Tower Rivaner Rhine wine.

It’s been in my fridge since then, unopened,

until a day or two or three ago.

At which time I felt like a drink.

Not used to wine, I gulped it a bit.

But then, you know,

it left a pleasant afterglow.

And so I sipped,

coating my mouth with the perfume.

Taste buds as erect as chilled nipples,

sprouting new branches.

Such fine detectives.

No need for sudden buzz, now.

Savor.  Lengthen.  Make the glass last.

But alas the glass did pass,

save for a single drop perceived.

Wet the tongue tip just once more.

Fire up the city lights, I pray,

A’fore one last lullaby.

It was a dark and stormy night…

Storms don’t bother him any more.
The rumble and tumble of distant thunder
brings a modest smile to his face,
and one could guess, from his inward look, its peculiar comfort.

In his mind are the blankets of his childhood bed.
Dirty grey and dark inside,
but soft and safe.
Safe with his own private sun.

Muting giants’ voices
perhaps until the morning.

Always there to hide his fearful tears.